Smooth Criminal
by Michael Jackson Fanfiction
Summary: This is a Michael Jackson fanfic. Tells the story behind the song Smooth Criminal. Annie is Michael's best friend, but Michael sees what Annie is blind to: that her boyfriend is an abuser, and she's in danger. What can he do? M for some violence.
1. The Sound Of The Crescendo

One in four women go through an abusive relationship sometime in their life.

Some of these women make it through it. They stay strong, they escape, they move on and forget. Others are permanently scarred. Because the physical bruises will disappear. Betrayal of the most perfect trust (love) will never.

And one in four women go through this. One in four.

Do you hear the sound of a crescendo?

* * *

ANNIE POV

* * *

When you don't know where you're going,

When you don't know how you got where you are,

When you sometimes don't even know who you were and who you are now,

What choice do you have but to accept the answers that you are given

No matter how ugly they are?

The rushing noise fills my ears and my eyes with anger, fear. Every movement I make is trapped, every thought constrained by the two emotions that rule my life. And I can never be free, because I know it is all my fault.

And through it all I must smile, grit my teeth, swallow the blood, and show a perfect stage mask to them all.

* * *

MICHAEL POV

* * *

When you don't know what's going on,

When you don't know what you should do,

When you sometimes don't even know who she is and who you are to her

What choice do you have but to accept the answers she tells you

No matter how much you know they are lies?

I saw her fall when he first trapped her with sugar water on the windowsill, I watched him put bars on the same window and trap her inside (trap me out) so that, not only am I not permitted to see her, but she tells me she does not want to see me.

I was her best friend for years and now I am supposed to believe that she does not want me.

I see the sign on the window, telling me to go away. And meanwhile I know that she is screaming inside these concrete walls he has erected around her.

But in the end I am trapped, because I am no God but human, and I cannot do anything.

* * *

73% of domestic violence incidents go unreported.

Why?

The woman involved is scared, she thinks she can change him, she thinks its all her fault, she has low self-esteem.

But usually it's because the abuser is controlling her. He knows what he's doing. He knows how far to go and where to stop, what to say, what to do so that she knows she has no choice but to keep silent, and during it all knows how to act so that she thinks that it's all because of her.

He's a smooth criminal.

* * *

ANNIE POV

* * *

I wake up in Drew's arms. We're curled up on the couch, him halfway on top of me, and my back aches. We must have been like this all night.

I look up into his face. His eyes are closed and his jaw relaxed, and with his long eyelashes fluttering slightly on his smooth cheeks with every breath, he looks almost innocent and vulnerable.

When he looks like this, I can forgive him for everything. I can imagine him as he once was and pretend that he is perfect. When he is asleep, I can be in love with him.

And when he tells me "I love you," I can believe him.

I squirm; this position jabs the edge of the sofa into the bruises on my back. He mumbles something and tightens his arms around me, then rolls over and blinks his eyes open.

"Annie?" His voice is thick with sleep, and he pushes himself up on one elbow. "What time is it, love?"

My watch says eight thirty, but I don't want him to get angry. "Seven."

He smiles and leans back, closing his eyes and slipping an arm around my waist to pull me close, massaging my back slightly. The bruise twinges, but I don't mind. I'm happy to have this. This is love.

Sometimes I think that this is wrong, this isn't real. But then Drew acts like this, so sweet and soft and gentle, and I know he's the one I fell in love with. Michael hates him. And Michael's my best friend, but I know better. He doesn't know Drew. He can't see this part of him, this inner part of him only I can love and believe in.

The phone rings, but neither of us get up. It rings twice, three times, four, then goes silent. A mosquito buzzes somewhere near my face.

"Annie?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too," I answer, and it's the truth.

* * *

I first met Drew through Michael, which is why I find it ironic when Michael criticizes our relationship. Michael was dating Sherry at the time, the singer in the group Drew played lead guitar in, and one time we all hung out together backstage after one of their band's concerts. Michael, of course, had to be smuggled in, but Sherry, Drew, and the other band members were cool about it and it was pretty fun.

It was one of the moments that Michael and I were able to act like just anyone else, for while he was a superstar, I was as well because of my father, and the band was anything but small town, we all felt like we were just normal kids (though we were all in our early twenties at that time) just goofing off.

Michael and Sherry were a couple, so that left Drew and me to talk and find out more about each other. I was fascinated by him; the other guys I'd dated hadn't held the same kind of appeal. Just bland, all in the same pattern. Drew was new, dangerous, mysterious, and at the same time with a vulnerable, deep side to him.

I felt so lucky when he asked me out, and it actually worked pretty well for a while because Michael continued dating Sherry so we double dated; to the movies, restaurants, occasionally a club though Michael disliked those. We didn't actually commit to anything, but I think both of us thought of each other as boyfriend and girlfriend, and that was enough for me.

I remember one day he gave me a silver necklace studded with diamonds, and as he fastened it around my neck he kissed my throat, telling me over and over again how beautiful I was. And now anytime he's away in either body or mind, anytime I feel like he's gone and a demon has taken over, I just touch the cool metal at my throat and remember.

During this time, Michael and I grew apart. We still double dated occasionally, but usually went to different places, since Drew preferred to go to the clubs while Michael and Sherry liked to spend time hiking or walking around a lake. I used to do that kind of thing with Michael, but I enjoyed the clubs too; they were wild, full of energy, exciting like plunging down a drop in a roller coaster.

Then Michael broke up with Sherry. Neither of them told either of us what it was about, but after that Sherry disappeared from the picture. She left the band, and Drew became the lead singer.

Michael and I had been best friends ever since our early childhood, so a few months separated did nothing to our relationship. We became close again, and I spent just as much time with him as with Drew. But Drew didn't like that, and he made me see that I was abandoning him. That my relationship with him was more important than the one with Michael. And I understood that--I didn't want to lose Drew. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I loved it when he told me, "I want you, you're mine." And I loved it--still love it--when he clutched me close to his body, wrapping his arms around my waist, possessively holding me tight whenever we were in public. And so I found that whenever Michael wanted to come over or do something together, I made an excuse. I knew being with Drew was more important, and I didn't want to hurt it.

But now Michael's jealous, angry, and it makes me get angry in return. He yells at me how Drew's not right for me. He tells me that I should break it off. He says Drew doesn't love me, that I shouldn't love him. And sometimes I can't believe that Michael's the same person I've loved as a brother for all these years.

It's like he's trying to control me.

Because I know who I love.

And I am free.


	2. It Was Her Doom

MICHAEL POV

* * *

It's eight-thirty, and Annie promised to be at the recording studio today. She's always been there, every Saturday, all these years, because that's our routine. Whenever I record a new song, she's there, and then we both go to the coffee shop across the street, and then we go over to her apartment for the rest of the day.

Yet lately it's like she's fading out, putting up bars, constantly forgetting. She said yesterday she'd call me when she got to Drew's, but she didn't. Is it me? I'm doing the same I always have been. Is it her? (Is it him?)

I pace across the floor quickly, anxiety rushing through my veins. I don't know what to do. I know it isn't right. It isn't what should be happening. I love her. She's like my sister. And I feel like she's getting hurt. But I can't do anything.

_"Annie, you've got to leave him!" I yelled, tears of exasperation thick in my voice. "Don't you get it? You're changing, I see it in your face... Annie, I'm your best friend, I can see this! You used to smile all the time, and now? What is happening to you? Where is the Annie I know?"_

__

"You know what?" She stood up and stalked over to me. "Maybe you don't know me. Okay? Maybe you never knew me. Just because we were childhood friends--"

"We've been best friends for over twenty years!"

"Yeah? Well, time doesn't always matter! Seems like I'm only just getting to know you!" She glared at me, and I dug my nails into my palm, trying to restrain my anger. "Look, I can do what I want with my life, and you know what? I love Drew, and if that means I have to lose you to have him, then I don't care, okay?"

I stepped back like she had slapped my face.

_Just like that._

And I didn't sleep all night, tossing and turning. Did she mean it? Did she mean she's never going to speak to me again?

Here I am, in the recording studio, and it's empty.

I pick up the phone, dial one more time, listen as it rings once, twice, three times, four times.

And I drop the phone on the floor and punch my fist against the wall.

* * *

ANNIE POV

* * *

I remember many years ago Michael and I were sitting in a hotel room; it was one of those nights on his tour that the concert ended early yet the sun had not gone down yet; adrenaline coursed through our veins but it had no escape, so we simply watched.

Both of us only twelve, we were watching out of the window into the alley behind the hotel, and we saw a woman running, fleeing in fear, tripping over herself and choking on her screams. The man caught hold of her arm, pulled her to him, and threw her against the brick wall of the building behind the hotel. Again and again, over and over. And each time she gave a strangled scream, pleas for help, until she finally fell silent and merely covered her head with her hands, simply waiting for the man to stop.

And then when he was finished, he took her in his arms and kissed her, like it was their own way of making love, like it was all okay.

Michael watched with his eyes wide, silent, his hand gripping me so tightly it was painful, until they finally left. And then he abruptly let go of my hand, turned away from the window to the bland, flowery wallpaper, and began to cry, tortured, breaking sobs. I rubbed his back and told him over and over, just a little twelve-year-old girl who didn't know what to do, "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real." Like it was just a bad dream. Yet it was real, so real that there was nothing either of us could do but pretend that it was not.

* * *

And now I'm alone in my apartment, shivering from the memory of Drew's warm arms, wishing he could stay home forever and keep me safe (from himself). He's at band practice, and he told me as he left that he'd be back around nine at night. Here I am, waiting.

Then I notice the phone, remember it ringing--and remember it's Saturday, the day I always meet Michael at the recording studio. Something we've done for as far as I can remember.

Things are changing. I never used to forget. And I never used to get angry at Michael, like I did yesterday. Is it him? Is it me? What is it? Who is this smooth monster at the edge of my vision, changing things without me even knowing who it is?

I stand up, pick up my jacket and my purse. I'm still in my clothes from last night. I remember the words I said over at Michael's apartment. Did I mean them?

I'm not sure what to believe. I'm lost.

But one thing I do know is that Michael has always been there, waiting, waiting for me to come and be his best friend like he's always been for me. It's been me that's been pulling away. And I hate that, I hate this--it's all my fault. I can't lose Michael. It's the only thing I haven't destroyed.

I grab my keys off the microwave and let myself out the door.

* * *

MICHAEL POV

* * *

She lets herself in and murmurs an apology, then sits down on the seat she always sits on. Sometimes it's like nothing has changed.

And then he comes into the picture and reality hits.

I attempt to sing, but my earlier anger and my current anxiety influences my voice, and finally I give up. I can't stay in this little cramped recording studio. And I can't leave her sitting there on the little metallic chair, with her knees curled up to her chest and her hands wrapped around herself like she's holding her body together.

I mutter a quick explanation to the soundboard manager, and he nods. He understand my moods; I've been having them more and more lately. Then I walk over to Annie.

"Annie." I say the two-syllable name in only a breath, but her chin jerks up, her eyes startled like a deer in the road. Once again, I notice how much more fragile she looks--everything about her. She's lost weight; her whole frame is skinner, face wan. Eyes that used to be so bright are now dull.

I was going to say something else, but the words push themselves out of my mouth. "Annie, are you okay?"

And that instantly puts her on the defensive. Her chin jerks up and her eyes turn hard. "Yeah. I'm just tired."

I don't say anything. I feel so helpless.

We silently walk out of the recording studio, and I can feel my bodyguards shadowing us, but the street is silent. The coffee shop is warm and bright across the street, and as we slip inside it's a welcome change from the biting cold outside.

I order a muffin, and she only a cup of black coffee. At the table, her thin white hands curve around it like it's the only thing keeping her warm. I want to sit beside her on the seat and hold her tight with an arm around her shoulders, like I used to do, but since Drew there's been an invisible wall around her, and I take a seat opposite her.

"So, how are you?" I ask. I try to smile to release the tension, but it feels stiff.

"Good." Her answering smile is fake as well. "Drew was kicked out of apartment, so when I got back from your place we were both busy moving his stuff into mine. That's why I was tired this morning and didn't wake up on time."

I hesitate, then bite my lip and speak. "Look, Annie, I'm sorry about what I said yesterday. You're right. You have the right to choose whoever you want. And I don't have the right to control you. I guess..." I'm speaking lies, "I guess I'm just overprotective."

She reaches her hand across the table and holds mine, and this time her smile is genuine, yet her hand is still cold. "It's okay. You always were." She laughs, and I do too. "Remember the time you locked me in the hotel room because there were a lot of scary photographers outside?"

I give a wry smile. "Hey, those photographers looked evil."

She becomes serious again. "I can make my own choices. And I can make my own mistakes. You've got to trust me on this."

Yes, but what will be the consequence?


	3. Are You Okay, Annie?

ANNIE POV

* * *

We go back to my apartment, which makes me a bit nervous, but it's a full seven hours till Drew gets back, so I force myself to relax. Michael seems overly worried about me, more than usual. The only way to make him comfortable is to pretend that I'm perfectly okay.

He digs through my videos as I make myself comfortable on the couch under several blankets, and finally pulls out Peter Pan. I laugh. He always likes Disney best.

And when the opening credits begin, he walks back and sits next to me, pulling me close to him. It makes me uncomfortable, but my tired eyes force me to forget what Drew might think and just enjoy the warmth.

It's not long into the movie before my eyes begin to flutter closed, to the tune of playful boys and fairies and a Neverland with no problems.

For a moment it's all okay.

* * *

MICHAEL POV

* * *

I smile when I look down and notice her asleep. Her mouth is relaxed, gently breathing, the lines of tension around her eyes smoothing. I slide my arm around her shoulders, and she murmurs discontentedly, shifting her body so that her face is against my chest and her arms around my neck.

I lean back against the sofa, careful not to disturb her. It doesn't seem like she slept at all last night. Yet the hatred I feel for Drew has burned itself out. All I feel is worry, and love for my best friend.

And I close my eyes and let myself slip away as well.

* * *

ANNIE POV

* * *

I'm woken by a shout that yanks me from the peaceful sleep back into the real world. Drew is standing in the window and his face is twisted in horror and anger.

What am I doing?

I leap off of Michael, shaking. Michael wakes instantly and follows my eyes to the window, at which he sits upright, still and wary, cold anger emanating from his body.

How did I get here?

I just fell asleep. I can't afford to do that. I can't afford to let down my guard. How could I have done this?

What have I done?

Drew looks like he could just break right through the window, smash it purely with his anger. Instead, I hear him throw the door open with a sound like a gunshot, and I cringe against the sofa as his steps storm down the hallway.

"What are you doing, Annie?" he yells, instantly at my side, gripping my arm painfully. He pulls me close and stares into my eyes. "Why are you doing this to me? Why do you have to ruin our relationship like this?"

"I'm sorry," I choke, I'm frozen, I can't speak.

"I do everything for you! And then you have to go and be a fucking slut. What is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry," I whisper, over and over again, pleading, crying.

He's twisting my arm behind my back and I don't scream because it's what I deserve.

"Let go of her."

Michael's normally soft, gentle voice is hard, cold. And now he's confronting Drew, standing up, tall and frightening. Drew glares back. And I'm crushed between these two hatreds.

Drew answers scornfully. "Why don't you leave, Michael? Why don't you let go of what was never yours?"

"She's my best friend. I'm not about to let her get hurt." He's not backing down and I cringe for him.

"Tell him, Annie," Drew turns to me, and his grip on my arm tightens. "Tell him to leave." His face leaves me no choice. I drop my head and bite my tongue as hard as I can.

"Tell him."

I look up and meet Michael's anguished eyes. He's telling me he's frightened, he's telling me he's panicking for me, and I know that he has reason to. But I also know that I have no choice, that I never had any choice, because I'm in love with this stranger at my side.

"Just go," I whisper. "Just leave. Please."

He stares at me, looks into my eyes, his mouth tight.

"Please," I whisper again.

He steps forward, eyes tight, worried (loving). "Annie, are you okay? Can you tell me that truthfully? Just tell me that you're okay, and I'll believe you."

And I know that I'm not. I know that I haven't been for a long time. And I can't see myself ever being okay.

"Yes."

* * *

MICHAEL POV

* * *

When I leave it's about ten at night, and the sky is in complete blackness. I get in my car, ignore the greeting of the chauffeur, and sit in upright silence until I reach my apartment.

I don't know what he's doing to her. I don't know, and that fills me with such a blind fear that I want to scream.

I spend the hours until daylight simply pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in complete silence.

* * *

I call her apartment at seven in the morning. I don't care that it's early. I don't care.

It's not him that answers the phone, but her. Her voice is tired and stressed, but it's her. And I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Michael?" It's a testament to our long friendship that she can recognize me only from a breath.

"Yeah. I just wanted to check up on you. Is Drew there?"

"No, he's in the bathroom. What did you want?"

"What did you do to you last night?"

She hesitates, then answers. "Nothing. I thought he would be angry, but instead he just told me he felt so hurt and then he got drunk until he passed out. Actually, I've been doing most of the beating myself up." Her voice is bitter with self-hatred.

"You don't need to beat yourself up, Annie, you did nothing wrong. _Nothing._"

"Yes, I did. Look, Michael, I'm in a serious relationship. I can't be with you like I was before. I think it's best if we stop spending time together, because it's just getting out of hand, and that can't happen. I don't want it to happen."

"What? No, Annie! That's not normal. That's not okay. Being in a relationship does not mean you have to sever ties with your friends. And I know this isn't you, this isn't your idea, this is Drew's. He just wants to lock you up like a pretty bird that only he can see--that's not a healthy relationship, it's not healthy for you. It's killing you, don't you see?"

"It's not! I want this. You don't understand him." There's a pause. "You don't understand me."

"Maybe," I acknowledge. "But do you understand yourself?" My voice breaks. "I just want to know that you're okay."

"I am."

"Are you? Annie, are you truthfully okay? Your words tell me one thing, but your eyes tell me another. I want to see you again, I want to ask you, 'Annie, are you okay', and I want to hear you say you're okay with your mouth and with your eyes. Can you do that?"

"I-- I don't know, honestly, Michael. I don't think I should talk to you again." Her voice stiffens. "I don't even know if I should be talking to you right now."

"Annie..." Now I'm crying, hot tears are blurring my vision. "You can't... you can't let him do this..."

"Michael," she sighs, and the Annie I know is not lost, I hear this in that soft sigh.

And then I hear on her line a slam of a door, Drew's voice rough and angry, "Who the hell are you talking to?" and her phone drops onto the floor.

I cry into the phone, frantically, "Annie? Annie?" then I hear a thud, and a cry of pain suddenly choked off, and then the dial tone buzzes in my ear.


	4. He Left The Bloodstains On The Carpet

ANNIE POV

* * *

Do you know how it is when you've been blind for years and years

and you look up to stare straight into the sun?

Do you know how much it hurts when you touch those faded out bruises

and pain's mocking cackle reminds you that they're still there?

Or how it looks when you find out that your mascara really wasn't waterproof

and you see the scars of black tears covering your face like ashes?

What about when you've never seen your face since you sold your soul

and when you pass a mirror there's a monster peering out?

Do you know what it sounds like when a child who never cries screams?

Do you know what it feels like to have your eyelids ripped off?

* * *

It comes suddenly. He jerks the phone out of my grip, throws it to the floor, and it hits with a dull thud, since the floor is carpeted. And I cringe against the wall. Like I always knew this was coming. (Of course I did.)

"You just can't let go of him, can you?" His voice is cold, scornful, and his black eyes biting. "I should have known you've been cheating on me. I should have known."

"I'm not," I choke out, and then his palm smacks against my mouth.

_blood tastes sweet, mouth feels funny, cry out and fall against the wall_

"Don't lie to me. You're a slut and you know it. Say it."

"I--"

"SAY IT." He hits my mouth again, and this time my chin jerks up. I fall to my knees, spit out blood on the carpet. I stare in fascination at the red liquid, like it's just stage paint. Not mine. None of this is actually happening to me.

He picks me up, grabs my hair and yanks me up by it, staring into my eyes. "You're such a liar. I don't know why I even fell in love with you. But I did. And now you hurt me like this?"

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so so so sorry_

"You seem to think the world revolves around you. Just because of your father. And because you're friends with people like Michael. Don't you understand that without them, you're nothing? You're just some scared little girl hiding inside her own skin." _He sees inside of me with monster eyes._"And don't think you can lie. I can see it." _I can't deny it._ He drops me, and I fall to the floor, crumpling onto the bloodstained carpet.

_run, flee, fly from the monster, you know there's no where to run_

Somehow, I pick up my body, run underneath the table, like the voice inside my mind commands me to. I'm cowering now (pathetic), letting out jagged sobs like some kind of insane freak, and he stalks me, a smiling predator. He walks a few steps forward, then stands, feet apart, looking down at me, eyes sharp.

"You know I'm going to kill you."

The words are placed out there like I've always known they were true. And I have; this is what Michael has always been telling me.

"And you know you deserve it."

Yet I'm right too, because that's what I've always been telling Michael. Draw.

I'm trapped by the legs of the table, a little four-pronged prison, and I look out as he confidently paces back and forth. "Please..." I barely breathe out.

"Please what?" he instantly returns. "Please give you what you want? This is what you want. You know it." He steps forward then, suddenly, and pulls the table off me. He throws it, with one powerful heave, and it crashes against the wall.

I watch it with my eyes as it falls and then I close them, step backwards, again and again, faster and faster, then I turn and run down the hall, into the bedroom. There's no escaping, he jerks the door open, I cringe against the wall. He stares at me, without anger, without hatred, and then I know that this is it.

He takes three steps forward, each one ringing against the hard wood floor, then he grabs me with my arm, yanks me forward, then throws me against the wall

oh, deja vu, my freakish mind says wryly

again and again and again and again, now it's not the wall but the window, crash, splinter, is that glass or is it my skin?

I'm screaming now, painful shrieks bursting out every time he strikes me, but he's screaming louder, a continuous, animal-like scream, like he's hurting himself a thousand times more than he's hurting me

again and again and again and again, I want to close my eyes but where are my eyelids?

a foot against my chest and I can feel my ribs crack, call me cliche but there goes my heart

world falls on top of me all at once and I'm just a little twelve-year-old girl trying to hold it all up

and even after this I don't hate him because he's hurting worse than I am

and now I silently let go, loosen my fingers on the little I know

the agony disappears

the pain disappears

the world disappears

into whiteness.

* * *

MICHAEL POV

* * *

It takes six steps to get my car keys from the table, three more to the door, my shaking, white hand unlocks it, scraping with two futile attempts, then I run to the car. The door doesn't open, and I pull it, yank it, want to scream. Finally it does, and I get in, start it up, can't believe how sedately it yawns and wakes up into a calm rumble. And then I press down on the accelerator and drive purely fueled by fear.

I watch the speedometer slowly inch its way upward to fifty, sixty, seventy. My peripheral vision fades into a blur of grey buildings, mundane with the bright crimson of blood ahead.

I don't have to think about the turns, the streets, endless words and numbers. I know where I'm going. I just don't know what I'll find there.

And it is now that the fear cools down (just barely) and I spit out a loud curse when I realize that I should have called the police as soon as she hung up. The house phone was right there, 911 just three simple motions. Too late to turn. Too late to change my mind. This car is screaming along the road at the speed of light and there's nothing I can do, but plead panicked prayers that I get there in time.

Skid around a peaceful family home, sleepily opening their eyes to what they think is a perfect day, I'm hating the sun that smiles upon a dying world. And it's seven blocks away, seven blocks of identical rows of townhouse teeth, and then I'm at her place. The house is dark.

I park unsteadily, leave the car there and run up to the door. It's silent, soundless like any of the other homes, like no one has waken up yet.

Drew's car is (invisible, my eyes are deceiving me, everything/body is okay) not here.

The door is unlocked. Screen door open. Natural disaster happened here.

And my hand clatters against the wall, seeking the light switch; eyes blink in the darkness. Finally find it; artificial fluorescent light bulb floods the kitchen. Empty.

My socks pad gently against the tiled floor and I involuntarily shiver in the cold air. Enter into the family room. Empty as well.

No, not empty. And now bitter, broiling snakes enter my stomach, my throat, laughing and squeezing, because there are bloodstains on the carpet. Fresh ones. The wall is bruised; white wall paint splintering inward. Silent echoes of screams resonate off the walls and now dread fills my eyesight as I walk, slowly now, into the bedroom.

And there she lies.


End file.
